When the passion is hidden
by Efcia
Summary: There's a hidden passion in Arthur, Eames can see it clearly. But it's one thing to see and another one to reveal it, uncover it for the world. Eames/Arthur slash.


**A/N: As you can see it's not my usual Arthur/Ariadne story. In fact it's an experiment and next attempt in capturing Arthur/Eames, with all their contradiction and similarities. I had two sounds of inspiration during writing this story, two songs to be exact: "The Funeral", by Band of Horses and "Letters from the Sky", by Civil Twilight, but it still took a lot of time to finish this story.**

**All my stupid errors were eradicated thanks to ****Voldemort's Spawn. Thank you so much for taking care of this story!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Inception or any parts of it, no matter how much I want to.**

Now

Having your fingernails tearing out just might send you to the kingdom of suffering.

But it doesn't.

It feels more like tickling, making him want to laugh and Eames allows himself to flow with that urge, because why not? Why not laugh when everything is already insane and it can't be reality? It has to be a dream and if it's a dream it doesn't matter, doesn't matter…

The sharp smack on his face ends the hysterical laughing.

Eames opens his eyes, the world blurred with tears but he sees a man. He's so like Arthur, sharp and tight and perfect, but he isn't Arthur.

He can't be Arthur.

Because Arthur is dead; buried one July's Wednesday when sun was shining so hard, the heat drying all tears and leaving them sweating in dark suits and black dresses.

And Eames starts laughing again. How could he be so stupid? This man is nothing like Arthur, nobody is like him.

"For God's sake," the man says with disgust. "What kind of thing did you give him?"

Eames tries to curl in himself, his diaphragm hurting because of this entire crazy laugh, but he's tied to the chair and he can't. And why is it his stomach that hurts; not his fingers covered with blood?

He sees how drop of his blood falls down from his thumb and he's sure he has seen that before, somewhere in a different world, but it wasn't his blood that time.

It was Arthur's; leaking slower and slower as his heart was stopping and his dark eyes became blank.

Eames gasps, his laughing sharp like the blade of a knife.

The man raises Eames's head and scans his eyes. Eames's pupils are pin-sized and the man sighs.

"Take him to the cell." He commands, "And next time, think before you give him any drugs."

Eames feels them untie him and then half-drag, half-carry him through a long and cold corridor. But he doesn't react. He's too concentrated on the pain in his chest that has nothing to do with laughing.

The reason of it is buried deeply in the dry ground of a cemetery.

Once

Arthur is just a guy in a tailored suit. No one interesting, at least not comparing to the "deadly- couple," the huge-eyed Mal and sandy-haired Dom with flames in his bright blue eyes.

So Eames almost doesn't notice him at all, the polite hand-shaking and a few words, nothing more. Eames stares at Mal, who gestures vividly, whose laugh is contagious and Cobb, whose eyes are so bright that you'd give everything to prevent those flames from fading.

Arthur stays somewhere in the corner of Eames's view. Too calm, too composed, everything right in its place and it's not what can catch Eames's attention. He likes people full of live and energy, somewhat chaotic, who go through life dancing to the music from their souls.

Three hours later Mal is tipsy, in this beautiful female way, which makes them bright with light of self-confidence and gives their laughs a new, silver melody.

Eames laughs with her and Dom grins like a Cheshire cat and she decides she wants to dance, right now and right here, there's a music band playing tango, right? The fact nobody is dancing isn't important, if there's music it means you can dance to it.

Eames agrees with all his heart, but he can't dance, never could, not with his horrible ear for music. Dom finally starts to laugh, honey, he says, you know better than anyone I'm terrible at the tango.

And then her eyes go to Arthur, who still sits beside them, as perfect and cold, as in the beginning and as unnoticeable. But when his darks eyes meet Mal's gray ones something changed, for the tiniest second they're like two orbs of melted chocolate.

Eames can't believe his own eyes when Arthur actually stands up, bows down before Mal and then leads her on the middle of the restaurant, a place without tables.

Eames turns to Dom, a question on his lips because you must have passion in you to dance tango, but Dom silences him with a finger on his mouth. Dom's eyes never leaving the couple on the middle of the room.

And then Eames understands why and he is lost. Lost somewhere between two bodies and their story, the fierce and passion, every movement smooth and graceful and Eames wishes it'll never end.

But it ends.

Eames realizes that there's silence in the restaurant. No usual sounds of chatting, eyes of guests fixed dancers, who seem completely unbothered; Mal laughs and pats Arthur's shoulder and he leans closer, kisses her hand, a short brush of lips on her palm and the leads her back to the table.

Her eyes are shining, her breath slightly uneven, a bead of sweat on her temple and Dom kisses her, whispers something into her ear and she's beautiful, mind-blowing even.

But Eames isn't looking at her.

Now

The aching in his fingers is what wakes Eames up. It's dull now but Eames knows that the slightest movement will flash with sharp pain.

He flexes them, with scientific curiosity observing his body instinctively reaction for this suffer.

He knows he has been drugged and this weird feeling of being separated from his own body is an aftereffect of that. He vaguely remembers a van, men with guns, some basement, ceiling, all mixed together with blurred lines.

"Mr. Eames.", the man sitting beside his bed says and Eames hates him for his composure, this calmness which is so like Arthur's. "I want to apologize to you for yesterday's events, it wasn't what I planned."

Eames clears his throat; it hurts, desiccated. "Is there any sense in apologizing to a man you want to kill?"

He smiles, his eyebrow raised, this expression so painfully familiar in a twisted, wrong way.

"I want you dead but not undignified," he says quietly.

Eames would laugh, if the pain in his throat would let him.

"So kill me, what are you waiting for?" he snaps.

The man leans closer and his fingers almost brush Eames's cheek.

"First I'll understand."

The door closes silently behind him.

Once

Eames almost doesn't take his eyes from Arthur till the end of that night, observing him from the point he sits back at the table to the moment he disappears in the cab, but nothing more happens.

Like that dance took place in another world; he's calm and almost emotionless. Silent for most of the time, but Eames is looking and looking because there's one thing Eames both hates and loves most.

The hidden passion.

He waits patiently, aching for this amazing energy, the fierce Arthur put into dancing and sees nothing. Even sips of wine seem to be calculated his movement short and careful. Eames gets drunk while waiting and Mal is humming softly and sweetly beside him, her eyes closed. Dom shows him some photos, but Eames's eyes don't leave the figure in dark three-piece suit and Arthur never gives this glare back.

See you later, Arthur says before climbing to the cab in front of the restaurant and Eames realizes that even though he hates working on the right side of the law with its too many limits, too many restrictions and the pay too small, he'll take this job.

And he'll wait and he'll try everything and anything, because he wants to see that passion again.

And Eames always gets what he wants.

At first he thinks that Arthur is in love with Mal, the way his eyes become a little lighter when she's around. The way his lips twitches slightly in tiny smile reassures Eames that he's right. But then he notices the same things happen when Dom appears and Eames realizes that he's wrong after all.

Arthur isn't in love with Mal or Dom. He loves them both; with the same hidden passion he danced tango.

It hits Eames with a sudden and unexpected force because it shouldn't be like that. It just shouldn't; you can't give all of you to people who already find his other half.

It just doesn't work.

Eames sticks with job, helping them find out whatever there's a way to protect subconscious against forgers and he knows is stupid. He's working against himself, if they find something his specialty will become a nightmare.

But he stays.

They spend so many much time in the reality of Dreams, that it's easier to learn them through Dreams rather than the real world.

Mal's Dreams are always so vivid and bright, slightly blurring at the edges with chaos hidden behind the walls. She experiments, oversteps the mark, wanting to see more and more, to check yet another thing. Eames sinks in her Dreams, swims through their reality, enjoying every broken limit.

Surprisingly it's Dom, who stops her. Honey, we have something else to do, we're trying to find a way to protect subjects against forgers, and Eames sees a slightest hint of disappointment in Arthur's eyes, when Mal nods her head in agreement.

Dom's Dreams are similar, yet different. More real, without strange things you see with the corner of your eye. He pushes the limits, but not against the physics, he rather uses Dreams to build all this things he wouldn't be able to create in real world. And Eames loves the winding streets of cities and way the cathedral's roof is gleaming in sunset and tastes the coldness of snowflakes on his tongue.

And then surprise comes, when Arthur is the next one to create a dream space and here it is, with sharp and straight lines, in various shades of brown and beige.

Really, you have no imagination Arthur, Eames teases and observes the slightest tension in Arthur's shoulder, the shortest hesitation, but then everything is in place once again. Arthur smiles the tight usual smile; the one that doesn't reach his eyes and he leans closer; it's you, who doesn't create Dreams, remember that; the whisper soft, but with sharp edges. And Eames is happy, because he finally sees something more in Arthur, a little piece of emotion, and a sign that under this pale skin is a passionate soul.

So he keeps teasing. It quickly becomes a constant in their relation and Arthur doesn't seem to be angry because of it.

Dreams around them are shifting and changing, different subjects, various places and no method really works, it's simply impossible to protect your mind against excellent forger.

Not when he shifts his body into the shape of person you love most.

It's Mal, who says it aloud first, it's stupid, we're wasting time, that's what we do and Dom agrees with her, hesitantly, but he agrees. Eames understands that his time with them is quickly coming to an end, but his major aim isn't gain, Arthur's passion is still strictly hidden.

He wants to protest, but then he realizes that he shouldn't look at this six months as a wasted time, not for him at least. It's a proof his profession is eternal; no one can feel safe when the forger is working.

It seems strangely unimportant.

Now

The aching in the fingers is constant and Eames learns how not to pay any attention to it. It is somewhere, so close but not too close and Eames can simply lie on the bed and wait.

Waiting not really knowing what he's waiting for, if there will be more pain or a clear shot into head, or maybe a hole in his stomach and slow dying on cold cement floor.

Eames doesn't know and doesn't care. Everything distant and not really important, not since the hot July's Wednesday or maybe since the same month's Saturday, when something ended before it really happened.

His mind is whirling and Eames sees Dom. No, not Dom, not any longer; he sees Cobb, with bright blue eyes that have no flames in them and then the doors crack.

The man with all his cruel familiarity slips into the room with a hand-made cup in his hand and Eames smiles. He can't help it, because it is so like Arthur, this expensive cup and this arched brow.

The man sits beside the bed, curiosity in his dark eyes and smile disappears from Eames's face.

"How are you?" the man asks and Eames laughs mirthlessly.

"I can't catch your logic," he admits. "You want me dead and that's the truth, so kill me any way you want but don't play."

"Eames, Eames…" that man says, shaking his head. "I told you, first I want to understand."

Eames finally rises from the bed, his gray eyes intense and mesmerizing. "What do you want to understand? Why Arthur went with me that very day? The reason is simple, I can tell you."

The man beside him leans closer, full of his attention fixed on Eames.

"We were fucking the entire night before for the first time. He thought that maybe it meant something; that leaving me alone would be bad, so he went with me. Simple, isn't it?"

The hit isn't hard; not really. The man in front of him isn't Arthur, who in slim body hided rather impressive strength, so Eames just chuckles and hears the sound of slammed door.

Once

They go to the same restaurant where they met the first time, a kind of symbol and a perfect place to say goodbye.

This time Mal isn't that cheerful and flames in Dom's eyes aren't so bright, but Eames doesn't notice, not really, his eyes permanently fixed on Arthur.

This guy in three-piece suit who shouldn't catch Eames's eyes, but he does; constantly, even when Arthur excuses himself for a moment gray eyes of the forger are following him.

Of course Mal notices, she always notices things like that and she leans to him, her soft and gentle hand on his, her mouth oh so close to his ear, almost brushing his earlobe, You're not the first one to look at him like that.

Like what, Eames asks and he really doesn't know and his question hangs in the air, amusement on Mal's face turning into disbelief.

Oh, my God, you don't know, she says, aloud, catching Dom's attention, you don't realize, she repeats and that's when Arthur comes back.

We danced tango, Mal suddenly says, remember? The best one we've ever done.

Mal, we used to dance quite a lot, Arthur notices, a shade of smile on his lips and Eames's heart beat suddenly becomes uneven and rapid.

Not recently, Mal replies immediately, and I'm talking about the tango we danced half a year ago, you have to remember that one. It's a shame today nobody is playing.

Arthur suddenly has a smile on his face, a real one and Eames freezes, learning by heart how this smile looks like.

It's beautiful goodbye gift and Eames is grateful to Mal, even though he's not the one Arthur is smiling to.

It's really a shame, Mal repeats unexpectedly; soon I won't be able to dance. Not for a couple of months at least.

Her words tear Eames out from his reverie, every men beside the table alerted, Dom frozen with a glass of wine in his hand and with fear in his blue eyes.

I'm pregnant, Mal announces, a mischievous twinkles in her eyes and suddenly the world becomes a little more beautiful place.

Strangely it's Mal who Eames remembers best from this farewell meeting, the joy in her face, stars of happiness in her eyes.

He flies from Paris the next day, leaving the chillness of winter nights and illuminations of up-coming Christmas. He ends in Johannesburg, surprising even himself with this desire to go as far from there as possible.

They invite him to baptism of daughter in a cheerful e-mail from Mal, filled with happiness and pride of young mother and Eames smiles watching at photos she and Dom added to letter.

Phillipa is beautiful child, Eames can't argue with that.

Especially in Arthur's arms.

But Eames doesn't fly to Paris. He's in the middle of job and his employer wouldn't understand the necessity of taking part in christening celebration. So he writes an e-mail, compliments and admirations, and, after the slightest amount of hesitation he adds: send my regards to Arthur.

Send.

Eames travels around almost entire world. One week in Prague, another one in Mexico City. Or somewhere in Guatemala, Eames isn't sure why for God's sake, someone in Guatemala needs a professional forger. That job could be done without him.

But of course, he doesn't complain. Even though it means he can't go to little Phillipa first birthday, which Mal and Dom have him invited.

I'm in the middle of nowhere; he writes to them, I'm sorry. Send my love to Arthur.

Send.

Next mail shows up a couple of days later. Oh, Eames I'm so sorry we forgot to tell you! It reads, I'm pregnant again, we'll have a son! There are photos added from Phillipa birthday, all of them showing a tiny and cheerful blonde girl, with occasional appearance of Mal and Dom in the background.

And Arthur.

Not in suit, not this time, you don't wear suit for a child's birthday, after all. He has a tie though and a cashmere sweater, the sleeves rolled up.

Eames looks at this photo long, too long; his fingers almost brushing the cold surface of monitor screen.

Darling, he whispers, the word escaping his throat almost involuntary and Eames smiles, grins even, because it matches perfectly.

Matches those dark hairs, this time slightly disheveled just a little. Matches those dark eyes, which aren't really visible on this photo, it's too dark, but Eames knows how they are looking like.

Two lakes of melted chocolate.

Dark chocolate.

Eames loves dark chocolate, the contrast between the name and taste. Chocolate should be sweet, shouldn't be?

Congratulations! Photos are wonderful, it's a shame I couldn't be with you. Send my love to darling, will you?

Send.

Eames is sure Mal will know who he is thinking about.

It happens Eames isn't at James baptism too. Not that he doesn't want to, because he wanted, really.

But it's hard to be a guest at christening ceremony when you're laying with fever and a hole in left shoulder, isn't it?

Eames doesn't know that there are e-mails in his box. First the invitation, then an anxious question, filled with worry. He doesn't know that Mal checks her mail box every single day at least a couple of times and isn't aware that Arthur asks her every single day if there's any massage from Eames.

He doesn't know all this things, when he's lying on a camp bed in a flat in some old tenement house somewhere in Bucharest.

And he won't know until next two months.

Now

Sometimes Eames wonders if it's a boredom which is supposed to kill him, as after the first day nobody even tries to hurt him in any way. He's left alone in this small cell, laying on a very uncomfortable bed. The pain in his fingers ceased and he waits.

For anything.

Maybe it would be better to be tortured?

Maybe anything would be better than sitting alone thinking if there is still life before him or this is a place when everything will end.

Maybe everything has ended much earlier?

Finally the man steps in one gray morning and Eames holds his breath, realizing something that makes him hurt really badly.

It's not just a man. It's not even that man.

It's Arthur's brother.

And Eames has to remember that.

He stands beside the window, his dark eyes, so familiar and so different in the same time, fixed on the gray sky covered with clouds.

"We weren't close, not really." he says quietly. "Strange maybe, our parent's death should have joined us, but somehow it had never happened. I met him, first time for three years this summer. And for the first time I felt he's my brother, that we have something in common."

Eames observes him in silence, feeling the strong sense of unreality.

He wants to ask some question, but words are stole as he sees the expression in Arthur's brother's eyes.

They are haunted, the look so lonely that even Eames feels pity for him.

Once

When Eames finally reads all this messages, he's thrilled and scared, his heart making some crazy jumps in his chest. He almost forgot how it feels, when somebody really cares of you, how this feeling fills you with warmth and suddenly the emptiness inside you no longer exists.

I'm alive, just few unexpected problems. And I have to stay low you know, so I won't get to James birthday, I'm sorry. Embrace darling in my name.

Send.

He is staying low, in the heat of Mombasa, finally away from the coldness and endless drizzles, enjoying every single minute in the sun.

It's really not bad, a time for gambling, a little frauds, nothing big, just to stay in a good shape, a time for laziness and parties.

A little, chaotic peace.

It's strange how fast it can be break with just one mail, eights words plus signature.

Mal is dead. Funeral on Friday at 12 o'clock, Arthur.

Four months before James second birthday.

A short message, no explanations, just like that and Eames stares at monitor, hoping, hoping so hard that it's a kind of horrible joke.

But of course it isn't, it's the real world. You don't wake up when you die here.

The sudden wetness on his cheek startles Eames, because he's never cried, never. His eyes were dry even at his mother's funeral, how could be crying right now?

But it can't be anything else but tears.

He flies to Paris, fourteen hours of disbelief because it's impossible, it's fucking impossible to travel to Mal's funeral.

Just impossible.

It's Arthur who meets him at the airport, dark circles under his eyes, lips forming a thin, bloodless line and Eames hugs him, no desire, just an urge to comfort him, to comfort himself.

Arthur lets him, a slight tap of his hand on Eames's back and pulls back, quickly; too quickly.

They think it's Dom who killed her, he says hurriedly as if afraid that within seconds he won't be able to say that and Eames freezes, not really believing his ears.

I don't know, Eames, I fucking know nothing, he adds, desperation in his eyes and for a second all the pain he's feeling is fully uncovered, but then the door are closed again.

He left, he left two days ago. Just up and left. The children are with their grandmother.

It's hot, so hot that Eames wants to scream it shouldn't be like that. When someone like Mal is being buried the whole sky should cry with endless tears of rain.

Children are there, small and confused, within careful arms of their grandma and Arthur's fists are clenched so strongly, the nails digging deeply into the skin.

Eames doesn't stay after funeral, he can't.

So he leaves, just like that.

Just like Dom has.

Leaves and hears the soft but accusing whisper of guilt in his head. You shouldn't be leaving, you can't. He is alone.

They left him, both and now you do the same.

Eames silences this voice with Dreams. It's not hard to be back, not in this business where still the circle of professionalisms is small and a need for their services grows bigger with every day.

Eames flings himself into jobs almost despairingly; various dreams, various people, various faces and personalities, every way appropriate to eradicate the memory of Arthur's eyes filled with pain.

Every method good to forget Mal's dead body.

Not that any of them really works.

Then Eames hears rumors, something about a new and excellent duo in the business: an Extractor, who can overstep every mark and deadly efficient Point Man.

Cobb and Arthur.

Eames sucks his breath, when he hears about them the first time, not believing his ears because how it could happen? He opens his mail box, ready to send a letter to Arthur, he has Arthur's mail, and freezes upon the computer's keyboard., his fingers ready to write, but his mind not.

What could he write?

That they are not supposed to work on this wrong side of the law?

Eames laughs humorlessly and closes the laptop.

Sooner or later they will meet, it's always like that: the bests meet the bests, especially in the world of Dream-sharing.

It's rather sooner than later as it turns out, just two months after the first rumor they find themselves in Cracow, hired to steal a secret new drug compound. Nothing really hard, but also nothing too easy to not hire them.

They greet each other with shake of hand and speak only about job, nothing more and nothing else. The pain is still too fresh, too new to talk about it. The only personal thing Dom says is: call me Cobb. Without any explanations, a simple sentence, an order even.

Arthur lets Eames invite him for a drink though and they find a pub in the Old Town, small and filled with smoke, but with excellent beer.

They sit and drink in an overwhelming silence, none of them able to speak, neither wanting to be the first, none of them knowing what to say. The silence remains with them until the point Arthur stands up rapidly.

I better go, he says, his fingers slightly brushing Eames hand, the touch is soft as brush of butterfly's wings; Cobb is alone in the hotel.

Eames doesn't stop him, not really knowing why, reasons hidden somewhere deep in his mind. Why doesn't he grab Arthur's hand, why doesn't he force him to show a piece of passion?

He wishes he could know when he sits on the board of plane flying back to Mombasa.

But something has changed; Eames discovers it the next day, when a message comes to his mail box.

Hey there, it says, safe flight? Arthur

It wasn't the shortest or most impersonate but it's here, an almost material proof of Arthur's interest and Eames grins to laptop screen, suddenly feeling so light.

Darling, already missing me?

Send.

Don't flatter yourself, Mr. Eames, the almost immediate response comes.

And that's how it goes, until the day they meet again in an old warehouse in Paris to gain the impossible aim and perform successful inception.

It's almost strange how easy the internet connection can be translated to real life, half-smiles, patronizing tones, teasing, and almost constant bickering with happy twinkles in their eyes.

But nothing more, no more steps that could lead them further and further to the point of no return.

They leave at L.A. airport without any more than simple goodbye, somewhere deep inside knowing that the parting won't last long that it ends sooner than expected.

They meet accidentally in Venice and Arthur can't stop laughing. It's so cliché, it cannot happen, not really.

But it happens when Eames touches the palm of Arthur's hand, the slightest brush of his thumb and Arthur smiles, broadly and nods his head.

It happens when the door of the hotel room is hurriedly closed and none of them can breathe, reduced to pure senses.

Touch.

Smell.

Vision.

Taste.

It's new and familiar at the same time, imagined so many times before but so different from those visions and Arthur tastes strawberries, Eames doesn't know why and doesn't wonder.

He doesn't ask either where all Arthur's experience comes from, because it doesn't matter. Arthur is with him right now, as close as he can be.

That's what matter.

Only that and nothing more.

Because the passion is not hidden, not anymore and Eames collects every piece of it and finally sees the full puzzle.

This picture takes his breath away.

It feels almost scary to wake up with Arthur's warm body beside his the next morning, when sun draws lines in his neck and tickles his face with rays and Eames can't stop watching, until Arthur's eyes snap open and two lakes of melted dark chocolate meet two stormy seas.

I have a work meeting, Eames mumbles, with some nasty guys, I can't be late.

Nasty? Arthur repeats absently, his finger slowly tracing a line on Eames's jaw, If so I'm going with you.

Eames doesn't find the strength to refuse, not that he really wants to find it, the desire to actually have Arthur beside him the whole day too strange.

They aren't late and Eames sometimes wonders what would have happened if they were.

If the bullet would have pierced Arthur's stomach.

It there would be this horrible, almost animal scream.

If there would be a broken leg and wound on the temple, the scar still visible on Eames's head.

If there would be all this blood and hideous smell and slowly dying, which nothing can stop and nothing can shorten.

Not when the only person close can barely move and has no kind of weapon.

Eames is looking in those eyes and sees nothing more than suffering and it hurts more than his injuries, more than Mal's closed eyes and pale skin, more than anything.

Arthur chokes on own bloods, the stream of it flowing out the corner of his mouth and for a second Eames hopes that maybe, maybe all this movies aren't so stupid, maybe you can say your last words being so hurt so badly.

But, of course, Arthur doesn't say anything, the pain eating him alive, the blood lose taking away his strength and his beautiful eyes become more and more distant.

And then comes the end.

Eames doesn't understand where the tourists come from, how they find him. He hears a middle-aged woman screaming piercingly and it doesn't make any sense at all.

It's Eames who lost the person he loves, not this woman; he should be the one to scream.

But he stays silent.

Now

Arthur's brother watches him intently, his eyes as dark as Arthur eyes were and Eames smiles sadly.

"That kind of resemblance should be forbidden." he says quietly.

"You love him, don't you?" the man asks suddenly. "And he loved you, that is why he died."

He turns to the window again. "I wanted revenge. I couldn't understand why he went with you, I thought it was a trap, that you killed him." he admits slowly, "I still want revenge but now I know you're not the one I'm looking for. I could free you, but I don't think it would make you happy."

Eames closes his eyes. "No, it wouldn't.", he says, his tone slightly choked.

"So…" Eames hears Arthur's brother comes closer and feels a coldness of gun barrel on his temple. "Now I know you've tried to make the death of my brother a little easier. I can repay you for that only one way."

You can't hear the bullet that will kill you, so the last thing Eames hears is a soft whisper.

"I'm sorry."

The end


End file.
